Part 2
Chapter 8

IN the early twilight of Thanksgiving Eve came
Laurence, and Clara, and Charley, and little Alice
hand in hand, and stood in a semicircle round
Grandfather's chair. They had been joyous
throughout that day of festivity, mingling
together in all kinds of play, so that the house
had echoed with their airy mirth.

Grandfather, too, had been happy though not
mirthful. He felt that this was to be set down
as one of the good Thanksgivings of his life. In
truth, all his former Thanksgivings had borne
their part in the present one; for his years of
infancy, and youth, and manhood, with their
blessings and their griefs, had flitted before him
while he sat silently in the great chair.
Vanished scenes had been pictured in the air. The
forms of departed friends had visited him. Voices
to be heard no more on earth had sent an echo from
the infinite and the eternal. These shadows, if
such they were, seemed almost as real to him as
what was actually present,--as the merry shouts
and laughter of the children,--as their figures,
dancing like sunshine before his eyes.

He felt that the past was not taken from him.
The happiness of former days was a possession
forever. And there was something in the mingled
sorrow of his lifetime that became akin to
happiness, after being long treasured in the
depths of his heart. There it underwent a change,
and grew more precious than pure gold.

And now came the children, somewhat aweary with
their wild play, and sought the quiet enjoyment of
Grandfather's talk. The good old gentleman rubbed
his eyes and smiled round upon them all. He was
glad, as most aged people are, to find that he was
yet of consequence, and could give pleasure to the
world. After being so merry all day long, did
these children desire to hear his sober talk? Oh,
then, old Grandfather had yet a place to fill
among living men,--or at least among boys and
girls!

And truly our yellow friend, the cat, lay upon
the hearth-rug, basking in the warmth of the fire,
pricking up her ears, and turning her head from
the children to Grandfather, and from Grandfather
to the children, as if she felt herself very
sympathetic with them all. A loud purr, like the
singing of a tea-kettle or the hum of a
spinning-wheel, testified that she was as
comfortable and happy as a cat could he. For puss
had feasted; and therefore, like Grandfather and
the children, had kept a good Thanksgiving.

"Does pussy want to hear me?" said
Grandfather, smiling. "Well, we must please
pussy, if we can."

And so he took up the history of the chair from
the epoch of the peace of 1748. By one of the
provisions of the treaty, Louisburg, which the
New-Englanders had been at so much pains to take,
was restored to the King of France.

The French were afraid that, unless their
colonies should be better defended than
heretofore, another war might deprive them of the
whole. Almost as soon as peace was declared,
therefore, they began to build strong
fortifications in the interior of North
America. It was strange to behold these warlike
castles on the banks of solitary lakes and far
in the midst of woods. The Indian, paddling his
birch canoe on Lake Champlain, looked up at the
high ramparts of Ticonderoga, stone piled on
stone, bristling with cannon, and the white flag
of France floating above. There were similar
fortifications on Lake Ontario, and near the great
Falls of Niagara, and at the sources of the Ohio
River. And all around these forts and castles
lay the eternal forest, and the roll of the drum
died away in those deep solitudes.

The truth was, that the French intended to
build forts all the way from Canada to Louisiana.
They would then have had a wall of military
strength at the back of the English settlements so
as completely to hem them in. The King of England
considered the building of these forts as a
sufficient cause of war, which was accordingly
commenced in 1754.

"Governor Shirley," said Grandfather,
"had returned to Boston in 1753. While in
Paris he had married a second wife, a young French
girl, and now brought her to the Province House.
But when war was breaking out it was impossible
for such a bustling man to stay quietly at home,
sitting in our old chair, with his wife and
children round about him. He therefore obtained a
command in the English forces."

"And what did Sir William Pepperell
do?" asked Charley.

"He stayed at home," said
Grandfather, "and was general of the militia.
The veteran regiments of the English army which
were now sent across the Atlantic would have
scorned to fight under the orders of an old
American merchant. And now began what aged
people call the old French War. It would be going
too far astray from the history of our
chair to tell you one half of the battles that
were fought. I cannot even allow myself to
describe the bloody defeat of General Braddock,
near the sources of the Ohio River, in 1755. But
I must not omit to mention that, when the
English general was mortally wounded and his army
routed, the remains of it were preserved by the
skill and valor of
GEORGE WASHINGTON."

At the mention of this illustrious name the
children started as if a sudden sunlight had
gleamed upon the history of their country, now
that the great deliverer had arisen above the
horizon.

Among all the events of the old French War,
Grandfather thought that there was none more
interesting than the removal of the inhabitants of
Acadia. From the first settlement of this ancient
province of the French, in 1604, until the present
time, its people could scarcely ever know what
kingdom held dominion over them. They were a
peaceful race, taking no delight in warfare, and
caring nothing for military renown. And yet, in
every war, their region was infested with
iron-hearted soldiers, both French and English,
who fought one another for the privilege of ill
treating these poor, harmless Acadians.
Sometimes the treaty of peace made them subjects of
one king, sometimes of another.

At the peace of 1748 Acadia had been ceded to
England. But the French still claimed a large
portion of it, and built forts for its defence.
In 1755 these forts were taken, and the whole of
Acadia was conquered by three thousand men from
Massachusetts, under the command of General
Winslow. The inhabitants were accused of
supplying the French with provisions, and of doing
other things that violated their neutrality.

"These accusations were probably
true," observed Grandfather; "for the
Acadians were descended from the French, and had
the same friendly feelings towards them that the
people of Massachusetts had for the English. But
their punishment was severe. The English
determined to tear these poor people from their
native homes and scatter them abroad."

The Acadians were about seven thousand in
number. A considerable part of them were made
prisoners, and transported to the English colonies.
All their dwellings and churches were burned,
their cattle were killed, and the whole country
was laid waste, so that none of them might find
shelter or food in their old homes after the
departure of the English. One thousand of the
prisoners were sent to Massachusetts; and
Grandfather allowed his fancy to follow them
thither, and tried to give his auditors an idea of
their situation.

We shall call this passage the story of

THE ACADIAN EXILES.

A sad day it was for the poor Acadians when the
armed soldiers drove them, at the point of the
bayonet, down to the sea-shore. Very sad were
they, likewise, while tossing upon the ocean in
the crowded transport vessels. But methinks it
must have been sadder still when they were landed
on the Long Wharf in Boston, and left to
themselves on a foreign strand.

Then, probably, they huddled together and
looked into one another's faces for the comfort
which was not there. Hitherto they had been
confined on board of separate vessels, so that
they could not tell whether their relatives and
friends were prisoners along with them. But now,
at least, they could tell that many had been left
behind or transported to other regions.

Now a desolate wife might be heard calling for
her husband. He, alas! had gone, she knew not
whither; or perhaps had fled into the woods of
Acadia, and had now returned to weep over the
ashes of their dwelling.

An aged widow was crying out in a querulous,
lamentable tone for her son, whose affectionate
toil had supported her for many a year. He was
not in the crowd of exiles; and what could this
aged widow do but sink down and die? Young men
and maidens, whose hearts had been torn asunder by
separation, had hoped, during the voyage, to meet
their beloved ones at its close. Now they began
to feel that they were separated forever. And
perhaps a lonesome little girl, a golden-haired
child of five years old, the very picture of our
little Alice, was weeping and wailing for her
mother, and found not a soul to give her a kind
word.

Oh, how many broken bonds of affection were
here! Country lost,--friends lost,--their rural
wealth of cottage, field, and herds all lost
together! Every tie between these poor exiles and
the world seemed to be cut off at once. They must
have regretted that they had not died before their
exile; for even the English would not have been so
pitiless as to deny them graves in their native
soil. The dead were happy; for they were not
exiles!

While they thus stood upon the wharf, the
curiosity and inquisitiveness of the New England
people would naturally lead them into the midst of
the poor Acadians. Prying busybodies thrust their
heads into the circle wherever two or three of the
exiles were conversing together. How puzzled
did they look at the outlandish sound of the
French tongue. There were seen the New England
women, too. They had just come out of their warm,
safe homes, where everything was regular and
comfortable, and where their husbands and
children would be with them at nightfall. Surely
they could pity the wretched wives and mothers of
Acadia! Or did the sign of the cross which the
Acadians continually made upon their breasts, and
which was abhorred by the descendants of the
Puritans,--did that sign exclude all pity?

Among the spectators, too, was the noisy brood
of Boston school-boys, who came running, with
laughter and shouts, to gaze at this crowd of
oddly dressed foreigners. At first they danced
and capered around them, full of merriment and
mischief. But the despair of the Acadians soon
had its effect upon these thoughtless lads, and
melted them into tearful sympathy.

At a little distance from the throng might be
seen the wealthy and pompous merchants whose
warehouses stood on Long Wharf. It was difficult
to touch these rich men's hearts; for they had all
the comforts of the world at their command; and
when they walked abroad their feelings were seldom
moved, except by the roughness of the pavement
irritating their gouty toes. Leaning upon their
gold-headed canes, they watched the scene with an
aspect of composure. But let us hope they
distributed some of their superfluous coin among
these hapless exiles to purchase food and a
night's lodging.

After standing a long time at the end of the
wharf, gazing seaward, as if to catch a glimpse of
their lost Acadia, the strangers began to stray
into the town.

They went, we will suppose, in parties and
groups, here a hundred, there a score, there ten,
there three or four, who possessed some bond of
unity among themselves. Here and there, was
one, who, utterly desolate, stole away by
himself, seeking no companionship.

Whither did they go? I imagine them wandering
about the sheets, telling the townspeople, in
outlandish, unintelligible words, that no
earthiy affliction ever equalled what had befallen
them. Man's brotherhood with man was sufficient
to make the New-Englanders understand this
language. The strangers wanted food. Some of
them sought hospitality at the doors of the
stately mansions which then stood in the vicinity
of Hanover Street and the North Square. Others
were applicants at the humble wooden tenements,
where dwelt the petty shopkeepers and mechanics.
Pray Heaven that no family in Boston turned one of
these poor exiles from their door! It would be a
reproach upon New England,--a crime worthy of
heavy retribution,--if the aged women and
children, or even the strong men, were allowed to
feel the pinch of hunger.

Perhaps some of the Acadians, in their aimless
wanderings through the town, found themselves
near a large brick edifice, which was fenced in
from the street by an iron railing, wrought with
fantastic figures. They saw a flight of red
freestone steps ascending to a portal, above which
was a balcony and balustrade. Misery and
desolation giye men the right of free passage
everywhere. Let us suppose, then, that they
mounted the flight of steps and passed into the
Province House. Making their way into one of
the apartments, they beheld a richly-clad
gentleman, seated in a stately chair, with gilding
upon the carved work of its back, and a gilded
lion's head at the summit. This was Governor
Shirley, meditating upon matters of war and state,
in Grandfather's chair!

If such an incident did happen, Shirley,
reflecting what a ruin of peaceful and humble
hopes had been wrought by the cold policy of the
statesman and the iron hand of the warrior, might
have drawn a deep moral from it. It should have
taught him that the poor man's hearth is sacred,
and that armies and nations have no right to
violate it. It should have made him feel that
England's triumph and increased dominion could not
compensate to mankind nor atone to Heaven for the
ashes of a single Acadian cottage. But it is not
thus that statesmen and warriors moralize.

"Grandfather," cried Laurence, with
emotion trembling in his voice, "did
iron-hearted War itself ever do so hard and cruel
a thing as this before?"

"You have read in history, Laurence, of
whole regions wantonly laid waste," said
Grandfather. "In the removal of the
Acadians, the troops were guilty of no cruelty or
outrage, except what was inseparable from the
measure."

Little Alice, whose eyes had all along been
brimming full of tears, now burst forth
a-sobbing; for Grandfather had touched her
sympathies more than he intended.

"To think of a whole people homeless in
the world!" said Clara, with moistened eyes.
"There never was anything so sad!"

"It was their own fault!" cried
Charley, energetically. "Why did not they
fight for the country where they were born. Then,
if the worst had happened to them, they could only
have been killed and buried there. They would not
have been exiles then."

"Certainly their lot was as hard as
death," said Grandfather. "All that
could be done for them in the English
provinces was, to send them to the almshouses,
or bind them out to taskmasters. And this was the
fate of persons who had possessed a comfortable
property in their native country. Some of them
found means to embark for France; but though it
was the land of their forefathers, it must have
been a foreign land to them. Those who remained
behind always cherished a belief that the King
of France would never make peace with England till
his poor Acadians were restored to their country
and their homes."

"And did he?"inquired Clara.

"Alas! my dear Clara," said
Grandfather, "it is improbable that the
slightest whisper of the woes of Acadia ever
reached the ears of Louis XV. The exiles grew
old in the British provinces, and never saw Acadia
again. Their descendants remain among us to this
day. They have forgotten the language of their
ancestors, and probably retain no tradition of
their misfortunes. But, methinks, if I were an
American poet, I would choose Acadia for the
subject of my song."

Since Grandfather first spoke these words, the
most famous of American poets has drawn sweet
tears from all of us by his beautiful poem
Evangeline.

And now, having thrown a gentle gloom around
the Thanksgiving fireside by a story that made the
children feel the blessing of a secure and
peaceful hearth, Grandfather put off the other
events of the old French War till the next evening.